Missoula News

Column: Making it in Missoula

What the Heck is a Missoula-tarian?

By Little Sis, 3-19-08

When I first came to Missoula, I heard the phrase “Missoula-tarian” often, generally used in serious tones of voice without giggling.  Apparently Missoula-tarianism was an institution recognized far and wide (from Bonner to Frenchtown). 

Missoula-tarians are people (they live in Missoula, obviously; this phenomenon probably wouldn’t happen anywhere else in the West, except maybe Durango) who refuse to eat any meat unless it’s local, they know where it came from, or it’s wild game—shot by anyone, no acquaintance necessary. 

This is definitely a good way of trying to eat within your foodshed, but probably difficult to stick to if you’ve eaten meat all your life.  I’m sure that sometimes you just crave that Old Post burger that came from a cow in an undisclosed location that most likely decimated the entire Brazilian rainforest through its very existence.  No wonder you’re a Missoula-tarian.

I was raised as a vegetarian.  After a youthful school tour through a slaughterhouse, my dad decided to call it quits on anything bloody—except fish, which for some reason is the vegetarian exception; I’ve never figured out why it’s that and not poultry or caterpillars or something else arbitrary.  My mom followed suit, and out popped my sister and me into a meat-free environment.

My parents were always open-minded about it though, and never wanted to impose their beliefs on us.  “Try whatever you want, girls,” they’d always encourage us.

Five-year-old me: “I want a cheeseburger!!”

Mom: “Are you sure, honey?  You know what that is, right?”

Five-year-old annoyed me: “Yeeees!”

(my burger comes)

Five-year-old horrified me: “What is THAT?”

This happened frequently.  For some reason I always thought a “cheeseburger” meant that you got more cheese on your bread.  Who wouldn’t want that?  Imagine a five-year-old who’s never eaten meat being served a giant piece of cow soaking into her precious grilled cheese.  It was traumatic.  Seriously.

So, being the little hippie-child wannabe that I was in college, it made sense that I would try out the moral superiority tactic and go vegan.  What was the hardest thing to give up?  Cheese, of course.  I would get a piece of pizza in my college cafeteria and take the cheese off just to taste the grease.  Tough to be morally superior with cheese-less pizza grease running down your chin.

Actually, I really stuck to it for a while.  Unfortunately for me though, tofu costs a hell of a lot and I was poor.  So I got tired, was frequently sick, and lost about ten pounds, but my liberal high ground was worth it at the time.

Eventually, I had to give up veganism because my friends always caught me eating chocolate-chip cookies.  It was serious weakness, I admit it.

So I got to Missoula, and my sister, fellow lifelong vegetarian, was tearing into elk backstrap.  My reaction was a lot like five-year-old horrified me.  I still wasn’t drinking milk, eating eggs, butter, (unless they were in chocolate-chip cookies), yogurt, or sour cream.  You don’t have to ask about the cheese. 

Then began my education in bioregionalism and the concept of Missoula-tarianism.  I started to feel guilty for drinking industrially-made soy milk, but stuck to my guns.  To mitigate the guilt, I even (and this was BIG deal) took some miniscule bites of wild game (no, I had no idea who shot it).

Now, to throw a wrench in my mental blocks and moral clichés, I find myself in love with a mountain man.  A mountain man who really likes his eggs.  That was the first step—now I desperately need eggs after a night of drinking, especially one that ends at Charlie B’s, in order to feel human. 

So I’ve slowly been breaking down my now-baseless high ground.  Mountain Man made me an elk burger—he shot it, which made it sexy in a weird way—and I was profoundly satisfied (my BELLY was, don’t be dirty). 

This lifelong vegetarian has progressed to craving the all-natural beef burger (from Hamilton cows) at 515 upon occasion, and some deer steak to go with my morning hangover eggs.  I think I’m on my way to becoming a Missoula-tarian.  Pork and poultry still gross me out though, so I must be on the right track for being an enviro-neohippie-grubshedder.  As long as chocolate-chip cookies count, I’m all for it.

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